Chapter 8
Cruz
I blink, squinting my eyes as the morning sun blinds me. I turn my head away and then wince at the immediate stiffness in my neck.
What the hell did I—
And then I take in everything at once. The front porch of a cabin, my back against the wall … and Addison Thatcher asleep in my arms. My legs are stretched out on either side of her, and she’s curled against my chest, my arms wrapped loosely around her waist.
I stare down at her in utter shock, memories of last night crashing into me like a truck.
I’d been in my cabin—the closest one to hers—and I’d heard her yell.
At first, I thought I’d imagined it, but when she screamed a second time, I figured I should check on her.
In all honesty, I’d assumed she was screaming about a mouse or something, but when I’d found her curled up on her front porch, I feared the worst—some kind of emergency medical episode.
But when she claimed she didn’t need an ambulance and I took in her state that felt all too familiar, I knew what was happening.
So I held her through it. Talked her through it.
Let her hold my hand. God, she’s got a strong grip.
When she’d fallen asleep, I truly had planned on eventually waking her up and getting her back inside the cabin.
But in an effort to let her rest, I guess I must have drifted off too.
And here we are.
I can’t see her face, but by the way her shoulder is slowly rising and falling, I can tell she’s still asleep.
Almost involuntarily, I duck my chin, inhaling the scent of her hair—lavender something.
In my arms, she feels so soft and … small.
The image of her last night, shaking, whimpering—it claws at my gut unlike anything else has ever before.
Never in my life had I wanted to save someone from something so badly.
And never had I felt more useless.
Addison shifts in my arms, pulling me from my thoughts. She makes the tiniest, most obnoxiously adorable grunting sound, and then a sharp intake of breath. And then she cranes her neck up, and our eyes meet.
I see my own panic mirrored in her gaze, then shock, indecision, and finally … anger.
She’s angry. Of course.
She sits up quickly, putting space between us, and the parts of my body previously touching her suddenly feel cold in her absence.
“What …” she starts but seemingly remembers as she closes her mouth and swallows. She glares at me but doesn’t say anything. Honestly, I’m taking her silence as a good sign.
“Why didn’t you take me back inside?” she finally asks, and although she looks angry, her question is small, tired.
At first, my defenses rise, angry that she’s chosen to criticize me rather than see what I did for her. But I don’t know if it’s having seen her at her lowest last night, or just the lack of fight I see in her right now, but all my irritation fades.
Instead, I simply see someone who feels vulnerable and is trying to fight it the only way she knows how.
I take a deep breath, stretching my stiff limbs. “I fell asleep too. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
Surprise skates across her face at my apology.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking around, then back at me.
“I …” She swallows. “I didn’t mean for you to—” She gestures to where I’m sitting.
“You didn’t have to stay.” She won’t look at me; instead, she’s fiddling with a loose thread on her jeans.
I stand, reaching down and offering my hand. She stares at it for a long moment.
“I don’t bite,” I say softly.
She takes my hand, and I pull her up. She’s a bit wobbly on her feet—whether it’s from sleeping on the porch or the aftereffects of her panic attack, I’m not sure. Maybe both. I find myself reaching out to place a steadying hand on her lower back as she heads toward her front door.
Once she’s over the threshold, I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans, shoot her a tight-lipped smile, and turn on my heel.
“Wait,” she calls after me.
I turn halfway back.
“Do you want to come in? Get some water, use the bathroom?” She shrugs. “We’ve been out there all night.”
My cabin is literally a five-minute walk away, but something in my gut doesn’t want me to leave quite yet. I tell myself that it’s because I’m worried about her after last night. That I should probably stick around just for a little while. Just in case.
I follow her inside. Her cabin is set up similarly to my own, albeit a little nicer. Nicer furniture, appliances, flooring. It’s open concept, with doors for the bedroom and bathroom on the far wall.
Addison shuffles across the room, grabbing a glass from the kitchen cabinet and filling it with water in the sink. Then she turns and offers it to me.
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the glass and taking a seat at the small dining room table. I take a sip, then stretch my neck back and forth a bit. It’s definitely going to be sore for a few days.
The moments stretch past, and it’s then that I realize Addison is being quiet. Abnormally so. I glance up to see her leaning against the kitchen counter, silently watching me. She looks away when we make eye contact.
“It’s okay, you know,” I finally break the silence.
Her gaze darts to mine, but she doesn’t say anything.
“What happened last night,” I clarify. She’s starting to look irritated again.
Her default setting, apparently. But before she can go off on me, I continue.
“My little sister used to have panic attacks as a kid,” I say.
“I know better than most people that it doesn’t matter how strong you are; sometimes they just happen. ”
Something in her gaze softens. Not by much, but enough. She crosses her arms, straightens her shoulders. There’s a long pause and then, “How’s your sister now?”
“Better. Good,” I answer. “Did a lot of therapy to get there, but she has a handle on it now.”
Addison gives a short, curt nod. Then her chin raises and she meets my gaze. “Just because I … come from where I come from, doesn’t mean I’m weak.” She swallows.
I think I know what she’s saying. She knows what kind of impression she’s had on me. City girl, stuck up, lost on her first day on the ranch, having a panic attack alone on her front porch. And she doesn’t like it.
“Didn’t say you were,” I answer.
Surprise flickers across her face. “Well, you probably thought it.”
I snort. “Annoying? Sure. Weak, no.”
This gets a laugh out of her, albeit a short one.
She takes a deep breath, settling back against the countertop.
“My parents … they want a lot from me. More than I can give them. And before you give me shit about being a ‘poor little rich girl,’ save it. I’d trade almost everything for them to just …
” She trails off, as if realizing how much she’s truly divulged of herself.
Her comment about me giving her shit actually hits me a little. Maybe that jab about her designer jeans the other day was uncalled for. And in all honesty, I don’t know anything about her.
“Well, maybe this summer will be good for you,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You sound like them. They’re the ones who sent me here.”
“I meant being away from them,” I clarify.
Understanding washes over her face, and after a short pause, she nods. “Yeah. Maybe.”
I finish the rest of my water and then stand. “I should start getting ready for the day,” I say, heading toward the door. I reach it, pulling the door open. But just as I cross the threshold, Addison stops me.
“Cruz?”
I look over my shoulder.
“Thank you.” She doesn’t meet my eyes when she says it, and she immediately turns her back to me, moving deeper into the kitchen. Even so, it might be the happiest a “thank you” has ever made me.